


Murmuration

by TreacleTeacups



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 3 shot, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Because she is her own trigger tag, Canon Divergence from 5th Year, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Voldemort (Harry Potter), Pre-Slash, Unhealthy Relationships, Warning: Umbridge, and Harry is v oblivious, description of harm, flippant disregard of human life Voldemort-style, in which Voldemort gets jealous someone else is playing with his resident chew toy, that indulgent au in which Voldemort takes out harry's abusers for his own amusement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:54:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25966192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleTeacups/pseuds/TreacleTeacups
Summary: Exhausted and anemic from Umbridge's Blood Quill, Harry decides to relieve stress by writing Voldemort a parody of a letter, intimating that Harry wouldn't mind if Voldemort murdered Umbridge(not that he'd ever send it, of course). In a series of events culminating in Voldemort receiving that letter, Harry discovers what it means to request the aid of a possessive Dark Lord.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 137
Kudos: 1645
Collections: Extraordinary Harry Potter FanFics, Harry Potter





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt:  
> “If anyone half told him that he was going to hate someone even more than Voldemort he was sure as hell that he would have denied it... But Umbridge was seriously making him thing otherwise the woman was absolutely cruel and crazy! He was sure that the blood loss was making him delusional and that is why he was writing a letter to Riddle telling him that he was an asshole but he had permission to kill Umbitch for torturing kids with a Blood Quill”

* * *

**Part I: Umbridge**

* * *

Harry clenches his jaw, muscles protesting as he holds himself stiffly. Sweat slithers down his brow, dripping onto the wooden desk. His body burns with agony, waves of pain crashing up his arm and spreading throughout his body. Harry’s hand is the epicentre of the pain, where the shaky words _I must not tell lies_ are slowly carving through flesh and sinew and muscle. The pain is crippling.

“Continue,” Umbridge snaps, her watery, beady eyes glaring at Harry from under her fuchsia pillbox hat.

She looks absurd. Like a swollen frog stuffed into a human costume. Harry would laugh, except all he can do is bite down on his tongue and try to not gasp in pain – _he’s not going to give Umbridge the satisfaction_.

Harry sends Umbridge a brittle grin, more baring of teeth than a smile. He amuses himself at the look of snarling annoyance on her face and he forces his right hand to spell out another line, his left hand spasming weakly. Harry glares down at the parchment. The lines are written horrifically, shaky scrawling bloody lettering. At the beginning of detention, the pain is always sharp and swift but easily pushed to the side. By the end, it’s a pulsing, bone-deep agony that threatens to eat him whole.

Harry can barely force himself to write another line. His left hand is swollen, turning a distressing shade of bruised black and purple. The wounds were still raw from last detention. Harry steels himself, focusing deep within. _He will not let Umbridge see how she’s getting to him_. _Umbridge will not win. Umbridge will not break him._

Harry continues writing into the night. Detention is longer than normal; Harry supposes that’s because of his larger-than-normal outburst in class today. _It was worth it. Worth it. Worth it,_ Harry repeats to himself. With the carving of each letter, Harry loses steam in his conviction.

The time stretches half an hour longer than his normal detentions. An hour. _Two_. Harry’s shaking, bottom lip bleeding where his teeth have gouged a wound. Harry’s trembling, right hand barely clutching the Blood Quill. He feels… strange. Like he’s watching himself, as if from outside his body. So very far away. Harry’s brain tingles, his body going numb. He still feels the pain, but suddenly it doesn’t matter.

“That will be all for tonight,” Umbridge states suddenly, breaking Harry’s reverie.

Harry looks up in surprise and he comes back to himself in an instant, the pain returning triple fold. Harry crashes back into his body and all he feels is an overwhelming dizziness, an aching nausea that makes him feel like he’s spinning.

Harry collects his bag, stands, stumbles. Umbridge is watching Harry with cold eyes, greedily taking in the sight of Harry’s swaying form.

“It’s well past curfew, Mr. Potter,” Umbridge simpers. “Detention for once more flaunting the rules. My classroom, tomorrow night, seven.”

Harry reels in horror. _Another_ night? Straight after this one? Umbridge is going to kill him. _She’s going to kill him_.

The realisation is sudden. The hate is immediate. Harry wipes the sweat off his brow and snarls at her, storming out of the classroom. Harry is now trembling because of rage, the pain pushed aside. He’s weak with blood loss, mind twisted with agony. Harry trips over his own feet, propelling himself on by sheer will.

The audacity. The _cruelty_. She was – she was worse than _Voldemort_.

An abrupt thought had Harry standing stock still. _Umbridge doesn’t believe he’s back, does she?_ Harry thought to himself venomously. _Well, let us see how she feels about that when Voldemort is knocking at her damn door._

Had Harry been in a right frame of mind ( _not currently dripping blood through the halls of Hogwarts, not reeling in agony from extended torture, not descending into shock from blood loss_ ), he would have realised how catastrophically stupid his plan was. However, Harry was currently in the furthest thing from his normal frame of mind. He grinned darkly, a cruel and remarkable idea slowly developing.

Harry found the nearest abandoned classroom and pulled out his parchment, quill, and inkpot. It was strange, flinching at a quill, but Harry brushed his twitch aside. His brain was focused wholly on his new plan, dark amusement curling in his mind.

 _Dear Voldemort_ , Harry began with a flourish, his trembling so great that the letters looked as if they were written by a small child. _You may have killed my parents, you may have killed hundreds of people, you may have tortured people and caused nothing but misery – but you pale in comparison to Delores Umbridge. She’s a pureblood, our new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. I heard that was once a role you coveted, right? She likes to tell us fun stories, like how you were so very stupid during the last war. She likes to tell us that you were too stupid to resurrect. She calls me a liar, because a filthy half-breed such as yourself would never be able to accomplish great magic. I’ve attempted to set the record straight, but it seems she takes exception to my own blood status. How wonderful it must be to a pureblood._

Harry paused for a moment. Was that too goading? _Oh, who cares,_ Harry thought, a twisted grin spreading across his features.

_Professor Umbridge does enjoy spending time with her students. Why, just this evening I spent four hours with her! We play a game where she forces me to carve into my own hand and calls me names. Did you ever torture children? Oh, who am I kidding? You’re you. I’ve never thought that someone deserves to be murdered, but Umbridge has changed my mind. Imagine that! Turns out even stubborn Gryffindors can learn new things._

_Well, it’s been great catching up, but I have to go sleep now and dream of horrible things, wake up and go to class again like everything is just fine, get abused by Snape, and then hang out with Umbridge again! Very, very busy. I’m sure you’re busy too, what with the murdering and torturing and general assholery._

_Kindest regards, Harry Potter_

Harry sat back and admired his letter. He released a cathartic ( _hysterical_ ) laugh at the absurdness of it, amused by the sight of blood drips all over the paper where his trembling left hand had smeared it through the ink, his bottom lip still dripping sluggishly. Harry grinned and folded the letter, sealing it with his wand and writing _Tom Marvolo Riddle_ on the back.

It was an indulgent fantasy. But just that – a fantasy. Harry groaned as the hysterical ridiculousness of his ‘plan’ died out and all that was left was a bone-deep exhaustion and a terrible headache. Harry stood and shoved the letter into his book bag, deciding to throw it in the fireplace once he got to Gryffindor Tower.

In his stupor on his way back to the Gryffindor common rooms, Harry didn’t notice the letter flutter out of his bag, where he had forgotten to strap it shut. He didn’t notice that a house elf dusting the corridor found the letter and, like any kind elf would do, realised it was a lost letter, and took it up to the owlery. An oblivious, bruised, anaemic Harry Potter went to bed at eleven pm sharp after soaking his hand in murlap, completely unaware that a well-intentioned school barn owl was sending his absurd, malicious letter to Tom Marvolo Riddle.

* * *

“I don’t torture children,” a voice comments conversationally.

Harry looks up, surprised. One moment, he was laying in bed, wondering if he’d ever get to sleep – the next, he’s sitting in a dark classroom, a silhouetted figure at the front of the room leaning against a professor’s desk. Harry looks around, blinking in surprise.

“Pardon?” Harry asks, dazed.

“I do not torture children,” the voice repeats.

Harry squints and then reels back in surprise, realising what he was dreaming. “ _Voldemort_ ,” Harry breathes, flabbergasted. “Wait – _what?_ You don’t _torture children_? What would you call this, then?” Harry snaps, waving at the space between them. “A friendly game of attempted murder?”

The silhouette’s head cants to the side. Harry is grateful he can’t see Voldemort’s face; it makes it easier to be fearless when he isn’t staring into blood red eyes.

“I am many things, but a sadist is not one of them,” Voldemort replies. His normally cold, high-pitched voice is smoother, lower, contemplative.

“Please. If I looked up the definition of sadist in the dictionary, it would just be a picture of your face,” Harry snarks, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms defensively. 

Voldemort doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, doesn’t get angry. This is a strange version of Voldemort, a quiet one in the dead of night that isn’t hurting Harry or torturing him with alien rage. It is unnerving. Harry has come to expect a certain amount of dramatic flair from the Dark Lord; this silent contemplation is eerie and jarring.

“I was quite interested in that letter you sent. It bore a considerable amount of blood, as well,” Voldemort says after a lengthy pause.

“Letter?” Harry asks, surprised. “What let – _oh my god_ ,” Harry gasped, sitting up. “Did – how did you – _what?_ ”

“You did not write it?” Voldemort asks.

“I mean – well, _yes,_ but you – you weren’t supposed to _get it_.” Harry stresses, standing abruptly. Even in his dream he feels queasy, swaying on his feet.

“I thought it rather cavalier and friendly,” Voldemort agrees, not moving from his seated position against the desk. “Tell me, how often does she take your blood? Our blood?”

“ _Excuse_ me?” Harry asks, as offended as he is appalled.

“I find it fascinating that you are refusing to fight back against this woman,” Voldemort continues nonchalantly, “Especially considering the amount of times you have snubbed me. Tell me, Harry, would you like me to solve this little problem for you?”

“Oh yes, sure, I would like to request _Lord Voldemort_ to take out my DADA teacher because she’s _so mean to me_ ,” Harry scoffs sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“That’s all you had to say, Harry,” Voldemort replies, tone smoother than honey.

“Wait – hold on,” Harry stammers, confused, and abruptly he sits up in bed, the dream ending sharply. Harry trips over himself as he tries to jump out of bed, stumbling over his weak limbs and pounding headache. He’s soaked in sweat, his body not responding, and he _desperately_ needs to speak to Dumbledore.

Harry stops. Providing he could even _find_ Dumbledore, seeing as the old man had been avoiding Harry like the plague, what would he possibly say? _Hi Dumbledore, long time no see. Just a head’s up, I accidentally put a hit out on Umbridge. My bad?_

Suddenly, Harry realised how ridiculous he was being. It was just a stress nightmare. Voldemort wasn’t going kill his professor. If anything, if Voldemort even _had_ gotten his letter, the Dark Lord would undoubtedly be _pleased_ , sadistic monster that he is. Shaking off his alarm, Harry climbed back into bed, feeling rather silly.

And when Harry received a pretty box during the morning mail call, he thought it unusual but unalarming. Opening the delicate thing, he flinched at the sight of a fuchsia pink pillbox hat, a stained Blood Quill stabbed through the top. There was no note, but Harry didn’t need one. Stomach churning in alarm, Harry wondered what the hell he had done.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your reviews on chapter 1, I love the thoughts and jokes and time you spend to leave a comment, you make my day ^-^

* * *

**Part II: The Dursleys**

* * *

Harry sits at the kitchen table, picking absentmindedly at the healed scar on his left hand. His mind is exhausted. His emotions are burnt out. All Harry can feel is a vague, distant kind of horror, like he was seeing a large freight train coming at him from a distance but he was unable to move, feet trapped in the tracks. It was a rather uncomfortable feeling of impending doom, suffocating in its strength.

It has been just over seven weeks since Sirius died. Harry has been floating through the motions of living, but he hasn’t really been alive.

It was strange. For some inconceivable reason, Harry hadn’t thought to consider that Voldemort was playing him, was purposely using him to get to a _prophecy_ , of all things. The disappearance (and presumable murder) of Umbridge had kicked up all kinds of fuss at school and the government (Fudge had lost his goddamn head) and it was within the haze of chaos, accusations, Dumbledore being fired, and replacement Inquisitors that Harry had received the false dream. Despite all Harry’s warnings of dreams and the lesson he _should_ have learned by Umbridge’s death, he still took the dream at face value and led his friends on a wild goose chase through the Ministry.

Harry knows it is because of sheer dumb luck that no one else had died. Granted, most of his friends had sustained horrific injuries, just another result of Harry’s idiocy. Harry would give up his life in an instant, would severe any limb or break any rule if it meant Sirius could come back.

“Are you quite finished staring into space?” Petunia snapped rudely.

Harry looked up at the woman, the usual barrage of hatred and rage oddly vacant. Vernon stomped heavily into the kitchen and gave Harry a slap upside the head, prompting Harry to get off the chair and begin making breakfast.

Immediately into arriving at No Four Privet Drive, Dumbledore had sent Harry a missive, informing him that he could leave the Dursley household after just a fortnight and go stay at the Burrow. Harry had been breathless with anticipation up until the very evening, realising that the safest place for everyone would be if Harry stayed at Privet Drive. The house was protected by blood wards to keep Death Eaters at bay; besides, if an enemy _did_ manage to break in and slaughter everyone, no one would miss the miserable Dursley family. Harry couldn’t endanger Mrs and Mr Weasley’s family more than he already had this year ( _what if Harry accidentally dreams of Voldemort again, accidentally gets another person killed –_ )

Dumbledore still came to see Harry. He sat Harry’s family down on arrival, informing them of Sirius’ death, asked Harry to prove he was the owner of the (miserably wretched) Black family inheritance, and took him on a journey to meet a new professor. Dumbledore was hesitant to leave Harry at the Dursley household ( _though he’d never been so before,_ Harry thought bitterly) but he did. The only benefit of Dumbledore's attendance was when he took Harry's school supplies and Hedwig to the Burrow. At the time, Harry had been wary of parting with his things, but considering the shift in attitude toward himself by the Dursley household, he is glad that his things and familiar are no longer around, susceptible to mutilation by the muggle family.

Ever since the discovery that Harry’s “criminally-insane” godfather was dead, Vernon and Dudley had taken to returning to their old ways. Harry’s kidneys still ached from when Dudley managed to catch him and rough him up a bit a week ago, punching sixteen times as per the birthday tradition but with a bit more force than decent with his boxer hands. So much for a sweet sixteen.

Harry shifted on his feet, bone tired. He was so wary of going to sleep these days, scared of what he would see – scared of what _Voldemort_ would see. He hasn’t slept properly in what feels like years.

Harry feels himself pushed forward brusquely as Dudley stormed through the kitchen with the grace of a stampeding elephant. Harry gasped as he instinctively caught himself on the stove top, palms landing on searing elements, flesh burning.

“Go take care of it, you clumsy idiot,” Petunia snapped, collecting the food from the bench and serving her unconcerned family as Harry held his burnt hands, gaping wordlessly.

Staring at them for a moment, Harry stifled the spark of rage and went to run his hands under cold water.

* * *

“I can feel your pain, you know,” a voice stated.

Harry is laying on a cot, staring at the peeling paint of his bedroom ceiling. These days, his brain is so tired that it practically sleeps while he’s awake; Harry’s not sure if he is dreaming while awake or if he’s fallen into slumber, his dream imitating his waking world.

“Fascinating,” Harry replies dryly.

Voldemort hadn’t spoken to Harry like this since the Umbridge incident. The Voldemort at the Ministry had been different, he’d been the same old Voldemort. Harry finds he doesn’t want a repeat of last time’s events and does his best to remain in control.

“Your hands are burned. You need to heal them,” Voldemort informs Harry coldly.

Harry runs a blistered finger down the side of his other palm. “Can’t do magic,” Harry answers tonelessly.

“Cannot or will not?” Voldemort presses. “It is very distracting when you are in pain.”

Harry immediately clamps his eyes closed, an onslaught of anger so fierce and sudden from the sheer _hypocrisy_ of Voldemort’s statement that it makes him dizzy. “I’m sure it is very annoying for you,” Harry manages to say lightly, crushing a strange urge to simply begin screaming. “ _Sorry_.”

“Well?” Voldemort prompts.

Harry continues staring up at the ceiling, hands swollen uncomfortably; they’ve been like this for two days. Voldemort is in the corner of the room, once more bathed in shadows – a dark silhouette Harry can’t make out in his peripheral vision. “I can’t do magic,” Harry repeats blankly. “They almost got away with charging me and ejecting me from the wizarding world last time for casting a spell, and that was to fight _dementors_. I don’t have healing cream. It will heal naturally,” Harry says at last. He doesn’t even know why he’s humouring Voldemort.

“Your magic should have sped up the healing process. Unless, of course, your immune system is suppressed. Tell me, Harry, would you happen to be depressed, or ill?” Voldemort asks. There’s a strange rhythmic quality to his voice, deeper and smoother than the real-life atrocity of his high-pitched, nasally vocal cords.

“Depressed? Can’t imagine so,” Harry deadpans. “Ill? Perhaps if you count the bruised ribs and kidneys. Otherwise, I’m healthy as a pig to slaughter.”

“Would you like me to help you, Harry Potter?” Voldemort asks.

Harry sits up abruptly, turning to look at Voldemort. Like the last dream, Voldemort is a vague silhouette without defining features.

“What I’d _like_ you to do is leave me the fuck alone and preferably go jump into an active volcano,” Harry snaps, grinding his teeth.

“So angsty,” Voldemort tuts. “Then again, sixteen is a difficult age.”

Harry is astounded. _Sixteen is a difficult age?_ “Yeah, definitely,” Harry agrees sarcastically, breathlessly furious, “Especially if you have a sadistic sociopath of an enemy chasing you down like a dog, an abusive family to play slave to because it’s the only fucking place you’re safe, and a reputation so exploited that half the world thinks I’m nuts and the other half thinks I’m a prophesied saviour of wizard-kind. I’m fucking over it, Tom, I swear to Merlin. Just leave me the _hell_ out of whatever the fuck you’re doing. I’m done.”

With that, Harry turns his back to Voldemort and lays down facing the wall, wondering why it was so hard to just get a single night of dreamless sleep.

“Tell me, you are in Little Whinging, no?” Voldemort asks, completely unaffected by Harry’s insults and outburst.

“According to the public court transcripts from last year, yes,” Harry bites out.

“And I presume staying with your horrific muggle family?”

“What is this, twenty questions? Yes, I’m with my fucking disgusting family, in Little Whinging. If you had half a fucking brain, you’d drop a nuke on Surrey and get it over with.” Harry snaps, cradling his aching hands. _He’s so fucking tired._

“When you wake up, go to the shops. There will be something waiting for you there,” Voldemort says. It’s disturbing, how calm and reasonable he is. That Harry can’t get a proper rise out of him. In real life, it’s so implausibly easy to wind the monster up. This Voldemort is an unshakable foundation. It gives Harry an uneasy feeling.

“Like Bellatrix Lestrange, ready to disembowel me?” Harry asks through a laugh, humourless.

“A healing salve,” Voldemort replies.

“Sure, like I’m going to – ” Harry begins and then starts, turning over in his bed. Voldemort is gone. Mid-sentence, Harry had woken abruptly from his midnight dream into the dawn of morning.

Harry knows he shouldn’t go. But. His hands hurt. His heart hurts. He’s over the whole situation. The fight has left him and on some level it might be nice, to just walk away from the Dursley house into his own death. Harry knows it is his depression talking, but he can’t resist the lure.

Harry dresses, tucks his wand in his pocket ( _though he doubts it will do him much good, as he can barely hold it without shooting pain in his palms_ ), and walks to the shops. Unexpectedly, in the early hours of the morning, there’s a brown paper parcel for him, sitting at the top of concrete stairs. The letters _HP_ are written in cursive on the top. The few early risers walking to a nearby café pass by it unseeingly. Harry approaches it carefully, finally giving in and opening the parcel. There’s a pottle of goo in it. Against his better judgement, Harry spreads the goo over his hands and the relief is _immediate_. Harry hadn’t realised how badly in pain he was, until it was suddenly gone.

It was in this briefly blissful moment that an explosive **_boom_** rocked the small suburb of Little Whinging. Harry turned on his heel, shocked, and could see from the top of the stairs that there was black smoke billowing from six blocks away. In the direction he’d just come from. There’s the rising sound of screams, of sirens wailing, but all Harry can do is stand dumbly at the top of the stairs, watching No Four Privet Drive burn to the ground.

The Dursleys hadn’t gotten up yet.

“What did you do?” Harry breathes, unsure if Voldemort can hear him but knowing the monster is waiting for a response.

There’s a strange, feverish response to his words, alien emotions swelling and filling his mind. It’s cruel amusement and vengeful pride, dark satisfaction purring through Harry’s scar. Despite there being no words spoken, despite never quite knowing what Voldemort is thinking – _this,_ Harry can interpret, clear as day.

 _You’re mine, Harry Potter, and no one else gets to torture you but_ me _._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your lovely reviews on Chapter 2 <3 I've seen a few requests to clarify that Harry's stuff and Hedwig are safe and yes, I can promise they are - they were dropped off at the Burrow by Dumbledore after he came to visit (I completely forgot to add that scene in, so let's just pretend it happened).

* * *

**Part III: Severus Snape**

* * *

“Merry Christmas, Harry. Such a shame I just missed you,” Voldemort says.

Harry opens his eyes. He is once more dreaming of a dark room, reflective of the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, Voldemort a dark shadow at the front of the room. Harry thinks there’s probably symbolism and meaning in that, but he’s too tired to care. 

“That was nasty, what you did. Putting Nagini in Bathilda’s corpse,” Harry states through a lump in his throat.

“I did what I needed to do,” Voldemort replies, the shadow of his shoulders shrugging. “And I see my instinct was correct. Thank you, as well, for leading me to a clue of the thief. I doubt I could have done it without you.”

Harry bites down on his bottom lip harshly, forcing his icy hatred down. Harry and Hermione have been in the Forest of Dean for two days but the horrifically jarring image of Nagini bursting out of Bathilda’s neck had not diminished in strength since their escape. The aching scar of the locket burning itself into an oval shape over his heart and Nagini’s bite marks (without venom but no less agonising) feel just as raw as if they were fresh, too.

Harry pauses, thinking of the agony of the locket being severed from his chest by a panicked Hermione. “You said that you can feel my pain, when I had those burns,” Harry says. “Does that mean you could feel the blood quill too, those years ago?”

The shadow on the other side of the room is quiet. His silence is contemplative.

“I guess you wouldn’t have murdered Umbridge unless you had a reason like that,” Harry continues thoughtfully. He’s wondered this for a while but has never asked. They’ve not shared a dream like this in over a year ( _since the death of the Dursleys – )_ and the real-world Voldemort is hardly accessible for Harry’s musing queries.

“I murdered her because you asked me so nicely,” Voldemort replies softly, taunting.

“I did not ask you to murder anyone,” Harry snaps.

“But you did, do you not you recall?” Voldemort replies, “You asked and I gave. You’re welcome, Harry.”

“I didn’t ask you to kill Dumbledore,” Harry answers quietly, looking down at his hands. “Or Sirius. Or Bathilda.”

“Those deaths were already in play years before you were even born,” Voldemort dismisses. “Tell me, Harry. Where are you?”

Harry laughs, a deep noise that bursts through his lips, a touch hysterical. “You think I’m going to just tell you where I am, happy as you please? Sure, why not?” Harry rolls his eyes and turns away from the silhouette.

“Why have you been collecting my horcruxes, Harry?” Voldemort’s tone is pleasant, conversational. Except Harry can feel the seething fury burning through their link.

“I’m an eccentric collector of all Voldemort memorabilia, didn’t you know?” Harry answers dryly, a smile creeping up his lips at the thought of stirring Voldemort’s anger. “And my lovely eclectic collection just keeps _growing_.”

“I will punish you,” Voldemort warns lightly.

“How?” Harry scoffs, raising his hands to gesture around them. “You don’t even know where I am.”

“I could burn villages,” Voldemort muses, the cavalier threat raising the hair on Harry’s arms, “I could put a bounty on the head of that blood traitor family you adore so.”

Harry bares his teeth, furious. Ron may have left them to fend for themselves, but the Weasleys are _family_.

“But I won’t, not yet,” Voldemort continues, amused. “For now, I’ll grant you a boon. One horcrux, one _life_ , in exchange for another.”

Harry’s mouth goes cottony, fuzzy. His hands begin to shake, so he laces his fingers and clenches until his hands are white. “A life for a life?” Harry asks, as polite as he can force himself to be.

Voldemort hums in confirmation. “Yes. The locket for the life of Miss Lovegood.”

Harry feels the breath die in his lungs, ears ringing static in his shock. Luna.

“What have you done with her?” Harry growls angrily. He’s out of his chair in a shot, storming toward Voldemort. It’s the first time Harry’s willingly approached him in this dream state and Harry feels the furious, righteous anger sizzle out as he comes to a stop in front of Voldemort.

In the darkened corner of the room, the dark silhouette that is Voldemort slowly becomes visible. As Harry’s eyes adjust, he takes a step back in surprise. Voldemort is – well, he’s – _normal_. He looks like how Harry saw him last year in Dumbledore’s training, when Harry was looking back in time when Lord Voldemort still wore the face of Tom Riddle. He’s older here, definitely, but this is clearly Tom Riddle. Perhaps in his early thirties, though most likely older as wizards age much slower muggles. Thick black hair, aristocratic features, eyes somehow simultaneously a dark slate and ruby maroon.

Voldemort is leaning against a desk, calm as a still ocean, hands tucked into his trouser pockets as he peers down his nose at Harry with amusement, as if laughing at Harry’s bafflement.

The fury returns immediately in the face of Voldemort’s icy smugness. “I always knew you were vain,” Harry scorns, crossing his arms. “But _this?_ What, don’t like your snake face?”

Voldemort shrugs, a roll of his broad shoulders. “I find it is less inconvenient to appear in this visage. I find I have a connection to my old self, from nearly twenty years ago, here in this place. It is like slipping back into an old skin. Perhaps it is a memory, from when you were young.”

Harry flushes in anger. _A memory_. This Voldemort is the one that murdered his parents when he was just a year old. The hatred burns through Harry like a wildfire and he clings to the lifeline.

“Charming,” Harry comments coldly, pushing his rage down to a smoulder. “Back to the matter at hand. What have you done to Luna?”

“Oh, nothing yet,” Voldemort replies, grey-maroon eyes glinting in the low light. It is somehow infinitely worse to Harry, to actually _see_ this version of Voldemort in his quiet, devilishly relaxed state. “I’m not one to needlessly spill pure blood. But if you do not return the locket, she will stay with me for as long as it takes for her to see _my_ point of view.”

Harry’s heartbeat jumps erratically, the palpitations making his chest ache. Luna will never see from Voldemort’s point of view. He would keep her prisoner _forever_. And thought Voldemort may claim to not needlessly spill ‘pure blood’ (a blatant lie), there were always ways to irreparably harm someone without spilling a drop of their blood. Neville’s parents came to mind.

“Fine,” Harry says, voice breaking. “A locket for Luna.”

“ _The_ locket, undamaged. A whole one, if you might say,” Voldemort murmured, peering down his nose at Harry coolly.

“There was never anything _whole_ about the locket or you,” Harry snaps, furious.

“I suppose not,” Voldemort says slyly. He is infuriatingly _calm_.

“How did you even find out, about the locket?” Harry says, picking at the scar on his left hand. “You don’t seem to be terribly careful with where you leave your soul shards.”

“I am very careful as to where I place my horcruxes, Harry,” Voldemort corrected, an eyebrow raised in derision. “It just so happens that people enjoy sticking their noses where they do not belong. To answer your question, I have a… _Special_ relationship with Borgin and Burkes. When Mr. Borgin received the locket for the second time in a century, he knew who to contact. And when it was discovered stolen a mere day after being purchased from the despicable Mr. Fletcher – well, I could think of only one person so brazen to commit such an act of theft.”

“It was hardly theft,” Harry replied, rolling his eyes. “Mundungus stole it from the Black inheritance which, mind you, is mine. So, I was simply righting a wrong.”

“The locket is _mine_ ,” Voldemort hissed, his eyes glinting ever maroon. It was the first time Harry had ever seen this manifestation of Voldemort get angry. It gave Harry a spike of confidence, to be able to ruffle him so. “But never mind claims of ownership over my soul, Harry Potter. How do you suppose we make the trade?”

Harry pauses. He’ll need Hermione for negotiations. He’s never been one to completely think out a plan and although Harry’s luck has always kept him personally safe, it hasn’t protected others from dying around him.

“I’ll think about it,” Harry says, inspecting his nails nonchalantly.

“The deal expires tonight,” Voldemort answers, tone cool.

“Oh, really? You think you have the upper hand here?” Harry laughs.

Voldemort’s expression grows minutely dark, shadows flickering in his glittering eyes. “I do, Harry,” he states quietly.

“I think you’ll find that bullying and abusing me has the opposite effect. Feel free to ask Snape,” Harry snaps, pursing his lips.

Voldemort’s expression suddenly clears, his eyes growing light grey in consideration. His head tilts to the side, an eerily human action that rises the hair on Harry’s arm.

“I’ve seen how Severus treats you,” Voldemort intimates, voice dropping to a baritone drawl.

“Don’t you dare,” Harry warns, snarling.

“Consider it an act of goodwill,” Voldemort replies, lips curling up into a mockery of a smile.

“I said _no_ ,” Harry snaps. “No means no. Haven’t you ever learned basic fucking common decency?”

“Never,” Voldemort purrs. His expression is coy, lips quirked in a dark smirk.

Harry momentarily finds himself flatfooted. Of course no one had ever taught Tom Riddle ‘unnecessary’ things like _humanity_ and _decency_. How oblivious of him.

“Consider it a Christmas gift,” Voldemort continues, almond shaped eyes slightly widened in innocence.

“I don’t want more blood on my hands,” Harry says at last, sighing and leaning against a desk. He finds himself suddenly insurmountably tired.

“He told me about you, did you know?” Voldemort says suddenly, lacing his fingers together. “About the prophecy. About your parents. He asked me to get rid of you and your father but spare your mother. One can only presume how Lily Potter would have felt about her child and husband being assassinated by the Dark Lord, on bequest of her old love.”

Harry gapes, a dagger of betrayal stabbing through his gut. Snape! Of course – _Snape._ A rush of loathing bursts through Harry’s chest, his lungs crushed under the weight of his emotion. The other words – _old love_ – barely filter through, hardly making an impact. There’s a history here that Harry doesn’t know, but it doesn’t matter – _it was always Snape._

“You want a gesture of goodwill?” Harry snarls, trying desperately to keep his absolute encompassing _fury_ in check, “Release Luna.”

“Like a dog with a bone, this obsession with Luna Lovegood. Why, Harry,” Voldemort says lowly, his voice deepening into a baritone purr. His words are soft but there’s a dangerous lilt that puts Harry on edge. Voldemort pushes away from the desk he’s leant against, prowling closer to Harry and circling him. Harry refuses to turn and watch Voldemort, keeping his eyes affixed ahead. “Do I sense… Young love?”

Harry laughs, a sudden noise that bubbles up from his chest without his permission.

“I pity you,” Harry says quietly, darkly amused. “You think there is only one form of love. I guess that makes sense, as you’ve never felt it. I do love Luna, as a friend, as a part of my family. She is important to me. But beyond that, she’s a _person_. She has value beyond the affection others may or may not feel for her.”

Harry can feel Voldemort’s disregard of such a statement through their link. There had been a building of dark energy from the other side of their odd bond, a strange fervour swelling as Voldemort circled Harry, but it receded at Harry’s words. Harry wonders what it is, that dark, pulsing, irritated emotion Voldemort is feeling.

“I feel love, Harry,” Voldemort says, returning to his desk and leaning back against it once more. “Perhaps not in the sappy, pathetic way that Dumbledore claimed everyone must feel. But I am indeed a person _,_ as you so elegantly stated, and I am capable of emotion.”

“And about as empathetic as a tree,” Harry adds.

“Whatever you say, Harry Potter,” Voldemort replies, lips quirking up into that damned amused smirk once more. “How is this for _empathy?_ ”

Harry jolts awake, alarmed. His heart is beating a mile a minute, sweat plastered to his brow. Hermione is dead asleep inside the tent, oblivious to the world, as Harry sat outside in the cold and was meant to be on lookout.

Harry feels a building worry in his chest, Voldemort’s last words ringing loud in his ears. _How’s this for_ empathy?

Quiet as a mouse, Harry stands and looks around the campsite. There’s nothing; it’s dead silent. Even the midnight birds aren't calling.

An eerie light flickers in Harry’s peripheral vision and he turns, Hermione’s wand in his hand glowing with uncast magic ( _missing his own wand more with every passing second)_ and hackles raised. Just on the other side of the ward, where Hermione has built an invisibility shield, a small Dark Mark glows in the sky.

Harry’s ears ring, his heartbeat stuttering.

_How?_ How did Voldemort know where he is? How did he move so quickly? How is this _possible_?

Harry creeps to the edge of the ward, breath fogging and lips numbing in the freezing night. The full moon looms heavily in the sky, casting strange hollow shadows through the unnaturally quiet Forest of Dean.

Just on the other side of the ward line, under the Dark Mark which is no bigger than the size of Harry’s palm and hovering six feet off the ground, is an unnaturally large nose. It is hooked. Harry recognises it immediately.

_Snape._

Harry stumbles back, nearly falls on his butt. His fingers dig into his arms where he’s crossed them, trying desperately to ground himself as he reels.

“That is _not_ empathy,” Harry breathes, his words misting in the cold winter air. The locket against his chest pulses in time with his heartbeat, freezing cold.

Harry looks down at the severed nose, refusing to leave the campsite wards. There’s a rush of something in his chest, something that’s not Voldemort’s influence – it’s wholly Harry. There’s a strange feeling of power building in him, looking down at that nose. Voldemort kills for him, gifts him trophies as if they were grand spoils of war. There’s something strangely… Courting, about it all.

Harry nearly gags at the thought, but it’s true. Voldemort has been playing a game of cat and mouse with Harry for several years now. _Voldemort_ _knows where he is_. And yet – the monster is taunting him. Giving him room to breathe. Is standing back, physically and mentally, and is watching Harry react to his ‘presents’ with amusement and that strange dark emotion that Harry felt when Voldemort teased him about Luna. If Harry didn’t know any better, he’d call it possessiveness. Envy. Jealousy.

_What are you playing at?_ Harry thinks to himself, clenching his jaw, backing away slowly in the direction of the tent. _What do you want from me?_

Voldemort does not reply, but Harry doubts he would answer honestly if he did. Harry climbs back into his bed, laying his head down on the pillow and watches Hermione sleep; there's not much point playing lookout, not when Voldemort knows where they are. 

The situation is confusing. Harry feels like he is two steps away from understanding it all, as if he were holding the key but just a step too far away from the lock.

_What do you want from me?_ Harry thinks once more.

_Your heart, Harry Potter._ Voldemort whispers in his mind, the serpentine hiss of Parseltongue through their link raising goosebumps on Harry’s arms. The dark curl of amusement emanating through their shared link is nothing short of damnation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TL;DR  
> Voldemort: (ㆁᴗㆁ✿)  
> Harry: ಠ▃ಠ
> 
> I've been struggling to write longer than 3k oneshots at the moment without losing interest, so I thought I would post this as it's just sitting on my hard drive. Canon divergence would be properly setting in now, as Umbridge hadn't been there to stop Fletcher from selling the locket to B&B (so the trio would have never gone to the ministry) and Hedwig and Moody would still be alive (and George with an ear) as they never had to rescue Harry from the Dursley household. Snape would never have had the time to send the sword to Harry (and thus no method to kill the horcrux, Bellatrix would never reveal the location of the cup horcrux, no doe patronous, and none of Snape's memories for Harry), and things would spiral exponentially from there. Ironically, Voldemort 'caring' (obsessing) over Harry is what saves his own life in the end. This 3 chapter version is a rough draft version of what I ideally imagined would be a ~50k fic and I would like to expand this, definitely, but don't know when that would be. Either way, though, I hope you enjoyed and thanks for your support!  
> 


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